


Keep Your Face to the Sun

by overtture



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Blue Sonder AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Hunters, Demon Powers, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Some Comfort, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Toby Smith | Tubbo-centric, ask to tag, headcanon heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/overtture
Summary: Tubbo has a love for life on Earth, it's undeniable to anyone and everyone who knows him. It's fascinating- the variance, the difference, the undeniable uniqueness of each and every plant and being. It's why he enlists Philza and Sam, the others, to teach him about these sorts of things.The softer touches of Earth. Life that deserves to be cherished and appreciated. He loses himself to it, sometimes.It's easy to forget that with all the gentle nature and beauty of the Earth comes the vitriol and violence of nurture.(Or, in which Tubbo loses himself to his wonder and loses a few more things along with, a breaking point is reached as natures are confronted the painful way, and the road to Hell has always been paved with good intentions.)Blue Sonder AU.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110
Collections: Blue Sonder AU





	Keep Your Face to the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> okay first off, yall POPPED OFF on my other blue sonder fic?! holy shit??? i lvoe every one of yall thank u for the support and im glad you all enjoyed it so much. im so sorry im doing this to you right after lmao i swear i have happier fics in the works they just take longer and angst comes easy to me 
> 
> NOW, i just want to let everyone know that the tag "ask to tag" is for you all! if you feel i havent tagged any fic correctly, which you're probably right lets be honest, feel free to drop a comment and let me know if i need to add, fix, remove, etc a tag! ive had issues with this in the past, and the last thing i want is to not tag something potentially triggering or something worthy of a content warning. 
> 
> with that out of the way, i'll likely come back and edit this over in a few hours to clean up any mistakes i've missed; much love as always to the blue sonder discord, who are endlessly supportive and the best, actually <3 enjoy!!

A shadow comes and goes, the change in light snapping Tubbo from his daze.

The fields are unchanged in his distraction, he reminds himself as he scans the treeline, the distant mountain range. Despite the ever shifting grasses and greens with each wave and roll of wind off the range, he can’t see anything out of the ordinary.

He’d been learning more about this world today. Phil had taught him a lot, especially concerning more spiritual matters when it came to the Sight. Sometimes Earth could be blinding when in the Forest, and while he’d learned to filter it out bit by bit, Phil had taught him about it properly. 

Of course, when it came to the actual science of it, he had the basics but struggled to answer Tubbo's more specific and complex questions. The others had been busy, something about a trip over the range he’d declined for lessons that morning, so he’d turned to Sam.

Sam was... strange. Even more so, with the Sight. Human in some respects, _other_ in others. Like glass, a different refraction of light through each angle you gazed through. Still, it meant little to him after a few curious glances. Not when he started getting into talks about atmospheres, photosynthesis, and differences between daylight and sunlight.

It was neat. Genuinely, even hours later as he studies the different flowers and plants of the field, he’s still mystified and awed. From Sight to regular vision, from texture to scent, this world was full of _variance._

The Earth was so _cool_. None of the demons liked to talk about Hell aside from the occasional story or description from Techno or complaint from Tommy. 

Techno had mentioned a field in Hell once, too. A great, gorgeous plains, dotted with the occasional tree, mysterious rivers cutting them into small patches and pockets of land. Some of them magical, some of them consisting of magma and lava, some of them of thick, unknown substances Tubbo’s half-sure are byproducts of the Old Wars by the description of them.

And plants. Beautiful blooms, some enchanted, some simply old. Older than anything alive now, likely from the Era of Before. The idea, the knowledge, that those fields could be remnants of the older Eras, history preserved and persevering despite everything, the domination of the worlds beyond the complete and utter destruction caused by beings of all kinds?

Heaven... it was different, he knows. He doesn’t like to think about it, so he doesn’t, but looking at these wildflowers on Earth now...

Life is beautiful. Life is worth cherishing.

Tubbo sits back on his heels and just breathes. Relaxes his muscles, tense from his scrutiny. Fans his secondary wings on either side of his head, letting the skin of his face breathe, extends his primary set, and angles them with the flow of the breeze as though he’s among the clouds with it.

He closes his eyes indulgently, narrowing his senses. The feeling of his secondaries flattening over his ears and the wind sheer’s scream despite it, primaries spread to their full, several foot wingspan. Water vapor clinging to his skin like a hug as he dives, the flush feeling of the wind catching his vanes, catching him as it always has. Not just daylight, but pure, unfiltered sunlight dancing over him, a kiss of warmth in a world of cool.

He sighs, tilting his head back as the breeze dulls once more, a shadow passing overhead.

“Is this the one?”

Tubbo’s eyes shoot open. Metal snaps its jaws closed around his neck as he rises to his feet and a flash of iron in his peripheral—

Agony arcs like lightning from vane to bone up his wings as he thrashes against the tightening of a muzzle against his face— one- two, three, four— five? How many, hunters or bounty-fetchers, did they _cut_ his wings, did they cut his _feathers,_ _what did they do to him—_

In a risk that takes all his weight, numb legs and all, he throws himself entirely into the one that wrenches his wrist the wrong way, forcing the others along with him. He whirls on them, the muscle of his wings forcing them to move or get thrown. _Three down_.

More metal, one around his ankle just as he manages to catch a particularly strong breeze from the space in their loose circle he’d created. It takes one sharp yank and his ankle screams as he’s forced back onto hands and knees.

His wings fall uselessly on either side of him like an afterthought, blood trickling in thick strands from jagged primary feathers that are simply missing, mauled by a hunter’s sheers.

Tubbo chokes as a heavy weight drives down in the center of his back, the narrow overlap of the bottom of his shoulder blades and tops of his wings. Pinned like a specimen on a tack board. Scents of dirt fill his nose, the earth cool and rough against his cheek where its pressed hard into the ground.

The rest comes quickly— with his back pinned above, his wings secured down by two others, wrists cuffed and single ankle pulled taut, he has little to do but flex what he has left to move and squirm, even as the leather of the muzzle and metal of his bindings chafe and burn.

_Fear,_ he acknowledges as he feels the world fade out. He’s afraid. His heart beats a furious tempo, his muscles twitch with an energy he hadn’t possessed today when the others had asked for him to join their excursion, he should've joined them, he shouldn't have said no, _he shouldn't have left the forest._

“Do they even match, or is this one just a bonus?”

"Of course it's a match, dumbass. The compass points right at it."

Something dark passes hands and when his upward turned eye finally comes into focus, it takes everything he has to not throw up with how violently bile rises, hot and acidic in his chest.

They have a handful of his feathers. A few smaller vanes slip free as they hold the messy bundle up to the sunlight. His eyes track them as they twist and slip through air.

They had his _feathers._ His _enchanted feathers,_ full of _his power._ Feathers they'd made into a _compass_ to _track him._ He swallows back his horror.

“No, this is the right one. Fetch a pretty penny, its plumage. You sure we can’t keep it?”

Recent. From his molt a few weeks ago. Undeniably his.

“Nah. It’ll take to long to grow back its feathers. Not worth the wait or the price.”

Anguish drives an arrow through his heart, constricting his lungs, bleeding adrenaline through his veins as he begins his thrashing anew. Another glint of metal out of the corner of his eyes has him closing them, yanking desperately at his restraints.

He didn’t want to die. He had survived, he had _survived!_ He had fought for this, for this life, didn’t that mean _anything?_ Not like this, not on the ground like an animal, not at the hands of hunters like a _dog. No, nonono—_

Screaming fills the air. A weight is thrown from his back.

Tubbo opens his eyes, strains his wings, and _breaks free._

The angry crackle of Wilbur’s teleportation rips through the air as Tubbo dives for the discarded dagger, wheeling on the next human that makes for him.

Hot, metallic human blood is overwhelming where the scent presses, heady, on the roof of his mouth. He dances quickly out of the way of their swing and dives into their open side, driving the blade upwards and twisting with lethal force until he hears them choke and shoves them off the weapon.

The next takes one look at his expression, his crimson gloves forged of his comrade’s lifeblood and the mess that stains the front of his shirt, and hesitantly raises an axe, shifting backward.

Tubbo charges, a feint he knows makes him look scarily like Techno, skimming the axe’s swing off his blade even as the guard shatters and his knuckles and back of the hand take some of the damage. He takes a half-second recovery as they heave the axe up once more and quickly sidesteps, a quick dart to the side he gets a good foothold for in order to drive the dagger into their soft, exposed side, between the ribs.

They let loose a bloody shriek and swing their axe sideways back at him, one he can’t avoid even as he extends his wings and scrambles back in stricken alarm—

Wilbur explodes into existence between them in a flurry of sparks and pops, a shield raised to meet the axe and a longsword in his backhand. Throwing the axe backward with a violent shove of the shield, Wilbur spins in place, kicking up a wave of dust and earth with the force as he gives his sword a single swing.

Two heavy thumps and then just Wilbur and Tubbo.

Wilbur turns to him, eyes quite literally glowing with his power as he half-teleports half-collapses before him, removing his shaking hands to tear the muzzle off him with a violent wrench. “Tubbo! Tubbo, are you injured?”

“Wilbur?” He stutters. “How?”

“We could feel you,” he explains, helping him break the collar and snap the shackles, “we were descending the mountain and we could just suddenly... see you. Hear you? I don’t know, we kinda just knew. I ran ahead, obviously. Tubbo, what the _fuck_ happened?”

“Can we go home?” He says, sounding more composed than he feels as he looks down at his bloody hands, skin chaffed by metal and leather, the bodies decorating wildflowers in dark, dripping lifeblood. “I just want to... go. Please.”

“O-Of course,” he says, quickly rising and hefting him to his feet. 

Wilbur sets a quick pace, obviously not wanting to rush him faster than his slight jog as adrenaline-induced exhaustion begins to seep in but still on edge, glancing around every other minute, tense and coiled even as they entered the forest and cross to their house on the other side.

Tubbo doesn’t really focus much after they enter, familiar scents of hickory, rain, each blending into Wilbur’s familiar smoky sugar smell as he shakes off his bloody coat into another room, quickly returning with potions.

Two get handed to him, full and bright where the magic hums within the glass. He throws one back and sips at the second. He can already feel his body itch under his skin, muscles twitching as his bruises and cuts began healing.

He doesn’t realize Wilbur’s standing before him until he hears his quiet _Tubbo?_

He’s holding a damp cloth and a new t-shirt. Tubbo blinks up at him, delayed, and raises his hands.

Wilbur kneels before him, working in quick, firm circles as he shuffles into his new shirt. Much of the blood is already drying, flaking and sticky, rusty smudges and smears taking the darkness away as he wipes diligently.

“I was looking at the field,” Tubbo replies. Wilbur’s rough ministrations become more uniform as he diverts his full attention, even as he doesn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge him. “Daydreaming. They just... jumped me. Didn’t know they were there ‘til I was collared.”

“Techno and Tommy are upstairs,” he soothes as Tubbo startles, a heavy thud sounding from somewhere in the house. “I told them to stay up there and not... overwhelm you.”

The door throws itself open, startling them both anyway, shards of wood ripping from the planks to catch it as Philza arrives in a flurry of leaves and greenery.

“Tubbo,” he says, out of breath, eyes wide and wings spread as far as they could, wall to wall to ceiling. “Is that yours?”

“It’s not,” is all Wilbur says, wiping the last of the blood from his hands and rising. They speak in soft tones, ones he doesn’t bother trying to listen in on as they pass, Wilbur ascending the stairs and Phil turning to him. He plays with the brim of his hat, precariously over his antlers. An anxious tick of his.

Something shifts in his chest and his face heats, eyes growing wet. “Phil... I, uh... I think I screwed up. I thought I lost my own feathers on accident, but I can't remember any occasion, y'know? It's how they found me, but..."

Phil’s eyes widen, something thunderous tightening his face before it smooths over with his glide across the room, taking a knee before him and fanning his wings around them protectively as he cups his shaking hands in his larger, rougher palms.

“No, no no no, Tubbo, this wasn’t your fault, okay? If you take anything, anything from this, make it that this wasn’t on you,” he says, voice softening unconsciously. He couldn’t help dropping his head as his face twisted in a bittersweet blend of sorrow and relief.

Phil was too good for all of them, he thinks suddenly.

Phil reaches up with an upturned hand, waiting for his cue before cupping his cheek and tilting his face back up to the light. “Your bruises are already fading,” he reports, giving a single brush of his thumb over the worst of it and replacing his hand over his own.

“Yeah, Wilbur has me loaded on regen' stuff,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes with sharp jerks. His pride had taken enough of a beating today. “I guess he thought broken feathers were like normal cuts and the like, didn’t want me on that instant stuff.”

“Ah,” Phil hums, peeking at his damaged plumage, plucking at a few of the looser feathers with a gentle care born of a winged being. “Instant stuff can be harmful if used too much over time, but more ideal in a situation like this.”

“Do you think...?” He starts slowly.

Something in Phil’s expression simultaneously hardens and, unbearably, softens. “Oh Tubbo, I’m so sorry. You have another year, maybe more until another molt this major. Even then, the lack of flight...”

“Phil,” he says, a sudden flood of panicked grief seizing him, “please? _Please._ There’s gotta be—”

“You can relearn,” Phil quickly reassures as Tubbo clutches at his shoulders, gently taking his forearms in hand. “We can teach you again, it’ll be hard, but I’ve heard of it happening. It’s half instinct, anyway! It’ll be fine, Tubbo. You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll... be fine?” He gasps, feeling the world still around him. “I’ll be okay?”

“Yes. I swear it, Tubbo. I’ve written for Eret, they’re gonna see about calling ‘round Niki, yeah? And we can plan some stuff out for the future.”

Tubbo nods, a slow bob and then a vigorous jolt of the head, taking a deep breath. “Eret, maybe Niki, plan. And you, right?” His gaze snaps up, hands tightening over his shoulders as his voice catches. “You won’t leave?”

“I need to go now— I ran out of a social call—” He explains as his face falls, “but I’ll be right back, okay? Right back for you, Tubbo. I’m gonna leave Will in charge, he’ll look after your wounds ‘til I make it back with some better, longer-term stuff. That sound good to you?”

“I, uh... yeah. Yeah.”

Wilbur descends the stairs, expression flat as Phil gives him one of his larger hugs, ruffling his hair and giving him a comforting smile as he leaves. Wil quickly takes his place, flopping down into the chair next to him.

“I’ll be honest with you, Tubbo, I was gonna take you straight to the other house, I’ve been working on my partner travel and it’ll just be a few hops,” he says at his raised eyebrows, “but Tommy’s been wearing a hole in the floor upstairs and I think he’s got an idea of what happened.”

“You want me to hear it?” He asks, a little stunned. They loved to baby him, despite his age. They never liked to let him sit in on big meetings like this, and while he’d never outright pushed back on it, it was known he was endlessly annoyed with their little demon club.

“Phil would hide things from you, Techno would be too indecisive over shoving it down your throat or doing the same, and Tommy would tell you to suck it up— here’s my solution,” he says, “hear him out for peace of mind, and if you can’t handle it and it turns out to be a bad idea, we’ll bail.”

“Where up there?"

“The attic.” Ah, the demon’s timeout corner. Perfect. He can already imagine the headache their unrestrained auras will inflict on his Senses.

“Let’s go then,” he sighs, standing shakily and following after the light-footed demon up the stairs. The room itself is tense despite the casual setting, the fury of demons leaving pinpricks under Tubbo’s skin like warning beacons.

Tommy is indeed pacing the room, arms folded under his armpits as his tail snaps and cracks like a whip behind him, nearly throwing a vase off a side table as he goes. Techno catches it as he passes, graceful despite the complete and utter lethality oozing from every centimeter of him in both aura and physicality as he settles atop an old dresser.

Both glance at him, each other for a long few seconds in silent conversation before they all dismiss it and settle back into their respective places.

Wilbur crosses the room, heaving a sigh as he leans against the wall facing Tubbo, crossing his arms over his chest. The only outward expression of his own lurking rage is the angry thrash of his tail. “This isn’t going to go anywhere unless we strike while the iron’s hot, boys. Anything?”

“Feathers,” he speaks up, meeting their eyes as they all turn to him. “They had a bag of... my feathers. From my molt a month ago. Little more than a handful. They tapped into my old magic and turned them into a tracking compass."

“I thought Phil disposed of them,” Techno states, lips thinning.

“So did I,” he says, shaking his head. “I know there was no way it was on Phil. Not even worth considering, really. He knows how sacred this kind of thing is.”

“If they managed to find a way around Phil’s warding, the forest itself, even the enchantments?” Wilbur scoffs. “We can’t fight that kind of thing. Power like that? Who knows what other wildcards they have up their sleeves.”

“I’d bet on it,” Techno says, neck snapping, crackling, popping as he rolls his head in preparation.

Wilbur turns on him sharply. “Not if they can bring organic matter back from fucking ashes you don’t, Techno. Phil uses soul-type shit. Nothing comes back from that kind of magic, you know as well as I do. If they’ve found a way, we’re not going to go looking that threat in the face and calling its bluff.”

“If it’s that big of a threat, then it needs to be handled, Wilbur. If there was a group that small? They're a scouting party for a larger clan,” the other demon snips back, voice still holding its near-monotone matter-of-fact quality despite the edge of a bite. “We don’t even know if that’s what happened.”

“How else would it happen? Phil would never fumble something like this. If hunters are starting to pick up on this stuff faster than the magical sources they're hunting in the first place, we’ve got a lot bigger of a problem than a family hit on our hands. We’ve got the bloody _annihilation_ of every being’s _species.”_

“We just _don’t know,_ Wilbur, that’s the thing. We need _recon,_ we need _information._ So this doesn’t happen again. So it never _will.”_

Tommy takes a deep breath. “I know.”

A slight pause as the two elders simmered.

“Know what, Tommy?”

“I know how they got the feathers.”

“How?” The room swivels on him in mild alarm.

When his silence lengthens, Wilbur audibly grinds his teeth. “Spit it out.”

“I...” Tommy closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, faces them head-on with his full, towering height.

“I sold them.”

The breath rips from his lungs. Wilbur whispers a long, drawn-out cuss, Hellish in nature, one that makes Tommy flinch. 

Techno takes two long strides and despite their height difference, looms over the demonic teen. The air becomes thick, humid, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin as the other demons stiffened sharply, seeming to make themselves smaller and taller at the same time. There’s a feeling of... pull, from Techno. A miniature sun, dragging everything in with its undeniable gravity, even the air from the room.

Whatever they’re feeling, it must be a demon thing, the way the sensations are dulled, muted, far away to him. Still, Techno’s voice has depth to it, low and rolling as he speaks in a sharp, trilling tongue, an endless rolling snarl.

Wilbur shifts his weight for a few moments as Tubbo stares in alarm, eventually reaching a shaking hand to Techno’s shoulder, murmuring in that same language. As the pink-haired man glances slowly over his shoulder, Wilbur recoiling as though burned and dropping his head, both falling silent. Techno gave one more empty stare down at Tommy’s shaken form before turning on his heels, more crimson cloak than motion.

Techno glances at Tubbo as he passes, his entire being seeming to lose its severity. There’s an open invitation in those keen eyes. Tubbo replies with a gentle pleased flick of his secondary wings, one he’s surprised Techno understands when the man smiles, briefly, distractedly, at him.

The demon pulls a short sword from the wall-mount as he goes, summoning a war-axe with a shaft longer than he is tall and great curved blade larger than he is wide, giving the door a measured kick open and stepping patiently down the stairs.

A silent stillness as those heavy, ominous heels click their way down the stairs, a second flight, then the rattling slam of the front door reverberating over the entirety of the house.

“Tommy,” Wilbur starts, warningly. Tubbo whirls quickly around, meeting Tommy’s eyes as he stops mid-reach towards him, quickly reeling his outstretched hand in.

“I’m not a child, Wilbur,” the younger snaps, looking abashed regardless. “You don’t need to reprimand me every time you think I’m gonna steal from the cookie jar—"

“—well apparently I haven’t been doing it enough if you’re pulling bent _stunts_ like this! Do you even know the _depth_ of what you've—”

“—I got enough of this from Techno, enough that’ll be revisited when he gets back, I don’t need it from the fuckin _g peanut gallery_ over here—!”

_“Tommy,”_ Tubbo murmurs, ducking his gaze as the teen, still snarling a mouthful of wicked teeth, turns to him.

Silence descends once more, this time thinly between them for a few long seconds. Tempers reined in a little firmer, words collected and arranged on tongues. The near-silent _thwick_ and _thwap_ of furious tails thrashing.

“Hey, listen,” Tommy starts, stepping forward with a clawed hand outstretched once more. 

“Don’t,” he breathes. He draws his wings in tight and small, quickly skittering backward on uneven legs until his knees hit a crate and he falls into a sitting position, arms around his middle.

“Tubbo—”

The winged teen’s flinch is undeniable, no matter how contained it is. He avoids the demon’s eyes.

“You... you don’t get to call me that. Not after what you did. Not now.” Maybe never again.

“It was an accident!” Tommy snaps, hurt. “I didn’t mean— I thought—”

“You might not have meant to, but you did,” he speaks up, pointed and sharp. Wilbur’s boots tap a gentle rhythm Tubbo picks up, a tempo tapped against his hipbone. “You should’ve apologized. You should’ve asked, you have no idea the significance, the disrespect, the complete disregard for— for my culture, for my livelihood, my magic, my _wings—_ You can’t just keep— keep doing things without _thinking.”_

“I _was_ thinking!” The demon retorts, even as his brows crease in hurt. “We can’t keep living like this—”

_“No!_ You _weren’t! You weren’t thinking at all!”_ Tubbo shouts, shrill and distressed as he meets his eyes full-on, vanes rattling without tufts, wings flexing open and closed. “You never do! You never look before you leap and you _never_ take anyone but yourself into consideration, and any time you _do,_ you put _yourself_ on the chopping block! And it's not _fucking fair, Tommy!”_

“Tubbo... Tubbo, I’m sorry. I didn’t _know-_ I thought I didn’t have a choice, I thought I _had_ to—" He cuts himself off, lip curling in frustration as his eyes water. "Rations are low, hunters stalk the treeline, and I thought I could help.”

“It doesn’t have to be one or the other! You back us into corners with how— how hasty you are, and you don’t _think,”_ he snaps, wiping his eyes furiously with the back of his wrist as his pain temporarily swallows his fury. “You never think about the consequences. People get hurt by them too, Tommy, even the ones you purposefully cut us out of. I can’t keep... I can’t keep doing this. I don’t have that much to give. And eventually, nobody else will either.”

Tommy’s voice is small but steady as he glances to Wilbur and back. “I thought I was doing what was right, for _all_ of us. I’m _sorry._ Genuinely. I never meant to hurt you.”

"It's funny, 'cause I thought... I convinced myself that you were different, but," he glances away, a rueful laugh croaking out of him, "that's what they all say."

“Tubbo,” Wilbur finally cuts in. There’s a headache building like a storm behind his eyes when he forces his gaze over to him. The elder’s lips quirk, more of a sideways thinning of the lips than an attempt at a smile, but his eyes gleam as he opens and extends his arms, just a little.

“Tubbo, wait—”

The golden pin of Wilbur’s cloak is cool on his cheek as the cloth muffles the teen’s final exclamation, the nauseating stretch and squish of Wilbur’s short-range partner teleport swallowing everything else. Once, twice, three times his stomach twists. Then a gentle pat on the head to open his eyes and regain his lost breath as they both recovered.

Gentle maple and birch, dressed in the beautiful, ruddy tint of fall. The thick smell of rich dirt underfoot. The gentle rise of a chimney in the distance, atop an incline.

A world away, he thinks to himself, and yet, the sunlight feels the same.

“Well, fuck,” Wilbur announces to the open woods.

Tubbo can’t help but agree.


End file.
